


The View From Here Is Getting Better With You By My Side

by LayALioness



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Teenagers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-06
Updated: 2015-11-06
Packaged: 2018-04-30 06:29:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5153732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LayALioness/pseuds/LayALioness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bellamy meets Clarke at a family reunion. He realizes that normally, that would make it inadvisable for him to hit on her, but it’s not his family reunion, so he’s pretty sure it’s okay.</p><p>And it turns out to not be hers, either.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The View From Here Is Getting Better With You By My Side

**Author's Note:**

> Pointless awkward teenage fluff? You betcha.  
> This is basically an apology for my last fic? Which was a whammy, so here! Have some happy!
> 
> Title from Check Yes Juliet, which was 15yo me's JAM.

Bellamy meets Clarke at a family reunion. He realizes that normally, that would make it inadvisable for him to hit on her, but it’s not his family reunion, so he’s pretty sure it’s okay.

It turns out to not be hers, either.

The Reyes family—and the Diaz’s, and the McKenzie’s, and the Yzett’s—either by marriage or some sort of convoluted cousinry—gets together twice every year, for Easter and then later for Columbus Day weekend. On Easter, they mostly just get dressed up and go to church together, and then have a massive potluck dinner.

For Columbus Day, they throw a huge barbecue for the whole block, get drunk on imported tequila beer that’s technically illegal, and shit talk Christopher Columbus. It’s the actual _best_ , and Bellamy’s been going ever since he can remember, because Raven’s his next door neighbor and they’re the only ones their age in the neighborhood.

He’s hanging out with O by the empanadas, trying to avoid Great-Aunt Rita who seems to think he’s her nephew, who drowned—which would be awful if she didn’t try to pinch him so much. Octavia’s recently eleven, and feeling awkward, because a few months ago Raven’s family installed one of those fancy above ground pools, and this is O’s first time wearing a two piece.

She’s got one of Bellamy’s stretchy sweaters on though, and it swamps her, hanging almost all the way to her knees.

“You look fine,” he says, for the fourth time, but Octavia just glares at the pool, where all the other kids are playing some sort of game that involves a beach ball and making dolphin sounds.

“You’re my brother,” she snaps, also for the fourth time. “You’re _supposed_ to say that.”

“No, I’m supposed to mess up your hair and say you look like a dweeb. But I’m not, because I’m actually the best person ever.”

She rolls her eyes, which was actually the goal; when Octavia’s busy being annoyed at him, she forgets to be self-conscious.

“Blake’s One and Two!” Raven barks, and now they _both_ roll their eyes, before turning.

Bellamy’s known Raven since her family moved in when she was eight. She picked a fight with him immediately over who was King of the metal spider web at the park, and while she maintains to _this day_ that she kicked his ass, he’s pretty sure they ended on a draw. And, since stupid brawls on the playground is how kids make friends, they’ve hung out ever since.

Now they’re fifteen, and Raven’s recently become hot, which is mildly annoying since all puberty really gave him was growing pains and bad eyesight. But he’s known Raven since she was just a loud-mouthed, scrawny kid with braces, so it’s hard for him to really check her out. She’s wearing a turquoise bikini top and weirdly high denim shorts, but she’s worn that exact outfit basically every summer for three years, so it’s nothing new.

“There’s someone I want you to meet,” she adds, and _that’s_ new. Raven, as a whole, doesn’t really have friends. She doesn’t like people in general, really, except for a few like Bellamy and O and, until recently, Finn.

Until recently, Finn usually hung out with them on Bash Christopher Columbus Day, too, but. Raven wouldn’t say much about it, other than he turned out to be less than she thought she was, which was troubling in itself. Angry Raven was spiteful and loud about it, shouting swears in English and Spanish tangled together, along with a few death threats for good measure. But when she broke up with Finn, Raven was quiet, and _sad_ , and Bellamy wasn’t sure what to do.

Mostly, he wanted to strangle Finn Collins, but apparently that wasn’t an option.

“Who is it?” he narrows his eyes at her, suspicious. She’s wearing an enormous pair of sunglasses so he can’t see her eyes, but she’s _smirking_ , which is always a dangerous sign.

“Clarke Griffin,” she says, which means pretty much nothing to him, so Bellamy glances around for a guy he doesn’t recognize.

He doesn’t realize he should be looking for a _girl_ until she’s right in front of him.

“Clarke, this is Bellamy,” Raven says, and he’s not sure how she’s even speaking through the smugness on her face. “And his little sister Octavia. Guys, this is Clarke.”

Clarke gives a small wave, brushing a stray curl behind her ear. She’s blushing a little, like she’s shy, or maybe she’s a little bit sunburned. Either way, it’s a good look for her, and Bellamy’s mouth goes dry. He hasn’t even _tried_ glancing below her face, because he can see enough to tell she’s wearing a baby blue bathing suit, the stringy kind, and it seems like the absolute worst idea to subject himself to that. He wouldn’t be able to not stare, and he’d come off as creepy, and a jerk.

So Bellamy reverts to his natural state; making fun of Raven. “Since when do you have friends who aren’t us?”

Raven makes a face, predictably, but she’s still grinning at him, like she knows what he’s trying to do. “Since my douchebag ex became her douchebag ex at the same time.”

Bellamy squints back at Clarke, who’s grinning a little slyly, like she’s pleased to be in on something. “You dated Finn?”

She rolls her eyes and somehow makes it look pretty. Octavia elbows him in the ribs, probably because he’s being obviously pathetic, and embarrassing her.

“Only technically,” she says. “And then Raven crashed one of our dates.” She looks pretty happy about it, and bumps Raven’s fist when she offers.

“We got him back,” Raven adds, which is news to him. “It was Clarke’s idea, actually.”

“What’d you do?” O asks, around a mouthful of sticky caramelized apples.

Clarke grins. “We told his mom.”

“She was _pissed_ ,” Raven crows, triumphant. “He’s gonna be grounded for _years_.”

“Nice,” Bellamy agrees, reaching out to high five her. And then he high fives Clarke, since it _was_ her idea, and not giving due credit would be rude.

Her hand is tiny, and soft, and he’s fucked, basically.

“So what do you usually do when you’re not masterminding revenge plots?” he asks, because if he pretends to be smooth, maybe she won’t realize he’s not.

But Octavia ruins it by groaning _oh my_ God _you’re so lame_ , and marching over to refill her lemonade.

Raven heads after her, completely unsubtle, sing-songing something about making sure Blake Two doesn’t start a brawl over the punch bowl. She flashes Bellamy two thumbs up behind Clarke’s back, and he tries to flip her off casually.

But Clarke’s grinning up at him, wry, so he’s pretty sure he missed the mark.

“Are you always this suave?” she asks, clearly being sarcastic, but he thinks she sounds a little charmed, too.

He shrugs. Clearly she can already tell he’s a social nightmare, so there’s no point in pretending. He doesn’t have much to lose. “I know my strengths.”

“Awkwardly hot,” she chirps, and it’s a feat that he manages to swallow a very stupid grin.

“I have a niche. It works for me. Some of the time.”

“So, like, never, is what I’m hearing.” Another curl flops into her face and she pushes it back, and Bellamy is ninety-percent sure they are flirting.

So, naturally, he blurts the next thing he can think of. “So, Marauders-Era, or Next Gen?”

Clarke squints up at him for a moment, as if trying to assess how serious he is. Bellamy is just wishing he could die. Just lay down and die, right here in Raven’s backyard. She’d be _pissed_ , but he’d be dead already, so he wouldn’t have to deal with it. “Next Gen,” she says, firm. “The Marauders were dicks that everyone likes because they’re attractive. And Snape was a prick, too. Next Gen is where it’s at.”

“Yeah, but the Marauders have Sirius Black,” he points out, not bothering to hide his grin now.

Clarke huffs a little and rolls her eyes. “You _would_ like Sirius Black,” she starts, and then launches into a very in-depth and passionate rant about why Sirius is the fifth-most overrated character in the entire series.

“Who’s the most overrated?” Bellamy asks when she’s finished, mostly just to get her to keep talking, because she’s actually hypnotizing when she speaks. She talks with her hands a lot, and makes little faces when she’s trying to find the right word.

“Dumbledore, obviously.”

They’ve found a couple of lawn chairs, left by a couple of third cousins who had to pee and didn’t know to stash their seats in the hydrangeas first, so they wouldn’t get taken, and Bellamy leans back in his, getting comfortable.

“Okay, no—I mean, he made some mistakes, sure, but was doing his best. And that last scene with Harry? Come _on_.” He’s mostly arguing with her just to argue, at this point, and it goes on like that for a few hours. They move on to Toby McGuire versus Andrew Garfield as Spiderman, who the best Batman villain is (Bellamy likes the Penguin’s backstory, but Clarke is very passionate about Poison Ivy), and eventually get stuck on _The Hunger Games_ , which Bellamy’s never even _read_ —he just wants to hear all her detailed and impressively ruthless opinions.

He doesn’t even notice most of the neighbors have gone home, until Octavia wanders up to hand back his sweater. Apparently now that the pool is empty, she’s decided she can jump in.

She looks sorry about interrupting, which is a first, and is about to rush off again, to leave them alone. Bellamy sort of wants to tug her in and force her to join the conversation, just so she knows she still can.

But Clarke beats him to it. “If you’re planning to leave just so your brother can fail at flirting, don’t,” she says lightly, and Bellamy whips his head around so fast his neck cricks. “Or we’ll just come with you. I bought this bathing suit for today, and everything.”

And then she gets up, giving him a perfect view of said bathing suit—it’s a two piece, and _stringy_ , and he’s not really sure why everyone else isn’t staring at her. She’s basically the best thing he’s ever seen.

O still looks a little unsure, until Clarke bumps her shoulder on their way up the deck, and says “Bet I can make a bigger cannonball splash,” to which Octavia grins wickedly, saying “You’re on!”

Both splashes are impressive, and both get him soaked before he’s even in the water.

Raven’s there, lounging on the other end with her eyes closed, and she splutters a little when Clarke splashes her in the face. Then she swims over to Bellamy, impossibly fast, and flicks his wire-rimmed glasses. They’re his old prescription, because glasses are expensive and they still work pretty well, but he’d picked them out when he was twelve, at the height of his Classics phase, so they make him look like a very young and lanky librarian.

“Who wears glasses to a pool party?” she teases, and he swats her hand away.

“Contacts freak me out,” he admits. “And they cost more in the long run, so.”

Clarke laughs, looking ready to say something else, but then she gets sidetracked by O, who wants to play some weird underwater version of tag.

The thing is, it’d probably be easier, if Bellamy just thought Clarke was hot. But she’s also really smart, and cool, and even though they agree on basically every topic ever, she’s fun to debate with, not trying to shove her opinions down his throat, and respectful enough of his.

Plus, she’s unbelievably hot. He really wants to talk about Hans Christian Andersen with her and then make out for an hour. He’s not really used to this—when it comes to girls, he tends to find them pretty or hot, and his relationships have all mostly consisted of a lot of experimental kissing. He never really wanted to ask what they thought about his favorite myths in the middle of things.

He’s pretty sure this is a crush, and that clearly he’s never had one before—even when he was little and had all those weird feelings about the little mermaid.

Clarke bobs up beside him, hair wet and plastered to the side of her neck, makeup a little runny under her eyes, smile wide and open. “What nerd things are you thinking about?”

He huffs a laugh, and he can’t even feel offended. “Honestly, I’m not sure if I should do Raven’s history homework for a year, or be pissed that she didn’t introduce us sooner.”

“Oh.” Clarke worries her lip, looking pleased. The back of her neck and shoulders are red, so she’s definitely sunburned, but she doesn’t seem to notice. “I’m just really glad she forced me to come today.”

He stretches back beside her, so their arms touch from elbow to wrist. She doesn’t move away. “Forced, huh?”

She flushes. “Most of my social life revolves around the library, to be honest.”

“Wow,” he teases. “Who’s the nerd, now?”

“Definitely you. I only go for the free wifi.”

“I have free wifi,” he says, only realizing after that it kind of sounds like an invitation, to spend time at his home. Clarke’s staring up at him, surprised, and he’s already started, so there’s no going back. “And, bonus; snacks are allowed. Plus, like you said, I’m a nerd. I can tell you _so_ much about the Roman Empire.”

“How can I resist the Roman Empire?”

The sky’s a dark lavender by the time they all slide out of the pool, skin wet and pruny. Raven has already wandered off to help set up the fireworks, and Octavia’s stolen a throw blanket from inside the house because she has no boundaries, so when he sees Clarke shiver on the grass, he tosses her his sweater.

“You’ll get pneumonia,” he grumbles, and she laughs before shrugging it on.

She pokes him in the side, settling closer. “You’re sort of a grandpa, you know that?”

“I’ve been told that once or twice.”

The fireworks flood everything with color, drowning out all the other noise around. They get about fifteen minutes in before the cops show up, because fireworks are illegal in their county—but the Reyes’ have them every year, and the police show up _every year_. They’re nice enough about it, and let the show finish before writing out the fine.

Raven waves the yellow slip in their faces as she collapses down beside Clarke. “Twenty-five minutes,” she crows. “That’s a new record.”

“You promised me an hour,” Clarke accuses, amused, and Raven hums.

“There’s always next year.”

Bellamy tries very hard not to think about the implications of that—that Raven and Clarke will still be friends by next Bash Columbus Day, that maybe he and Clarke will be friends, that Clarke will be there with them, sprawled out on the brown grass looking up at the stars like tonight.

He doesn’t even know where she lives, and she clearly doesn’t go to school with them. He’s not sure how they could possibly manage to hang out, since he spends most of his free time babysitting Octavia, and Clarke spends hers having a separate life.

He doesn’t even _know_ her, not really, but. He wants to. And he’s pretty sure, if the way she’s snuggled up against his side is any indication, she wants to know him, too.

He almost asks her out—he hasn’t gotten the words down, yet, still debating between coffee or a movie—when she gets a text from her dad, saying he’s parked out front and waiting.

Bellamy swallows down the disappointment, while she hugs Raven, and even Octavia, before turning to smile at him.

“Bye, Bellamy,” she says, quiet, stepping up on her toes to press a kiss to his cheek. It’s too quick, and her lips are cold and still a little wet from the pool, and her hair smells like chlorine. It still makes his heart race, though.

And then she’s gone, and he has to get Octavia home before curfew. Raven sees them off with a Cheshire grin, so he shoves her in the kiddie pool out front, for good measure.

The next day is Sunday, and Bellamy’s an early riser, so he’s awake and trying to figure out how to ask Raven for Clarke’s number without her making fun of him, when the doorbell rings.

It’s a little weird, since no one _ever_ rings their doorbell. He didn’t even know it actually worked.

The door doesn’t have any sort of peep hole or window, and honestly he’s just too surprised that they have a visitor at eight A.M. on a Sunday, to even check before opening up.

Clarke’s standing in the doorway, dressed in a pair of soft jean capris and a tank top, looking perfect. Bellamy’s still in his pajamas—an old pair of sweatpants that have recently gotten too short, and a t-shirt with three holes around his nipple. He’s not wearing socks, and his toes are still painted blue with pink rhinestones, from when Octavia and Harper wanted to experiment with some cheap Walmart nail art kit—and he hasn’t even _looked_ at his hair yet, but he just knows it’s horrible.

He’s pretty sure he’s never felt worse about himself than he does in this moment.

But instead of looking grossed out, or amused, Clarke just seems uncertain. She’s got a few textbooks in one hand, and is playing with her hair with the other, like she doesn’t know what to do with it.

She gives a shy smile and flashes him one of the books— _World History Series IV: The Romans_. “You did offer,” she says, and it’s stupid how quickly all his anxiety melts away.

He opens the door wider so she can step in. “Yeah, of course. I, uh. It’s pretty early. O isn’t ready to face sunlight until at least noon.”

“I’m on my school’s swim team,” Clarke shrugs, toeing off her Toms inside the door. She’s wearing offensively neon yellow socks, and they somehow make him feel better. “So I’m used to getting up early. Should we study in your room, or…?”

It’s a very dividing question—on the one hand, Bellamy’s pretty sure being alone in his bedroom would increase the chances of making out by a hundred percent. If she’s even into him, which, he _really_ hopes she’s into him, but he’d be okay if she wasn’t. She’s cool, he likes her, he’d still want to hang out.

On the other hand, the idea of Clarke seeing his embarrassingly large collection of Treebeard figurines is horrifying. Plus he hasn’t moved his dirty laundry pile into the washer, yet, and he’s pretty sure it’s started to bleed over to his clean laundry pile, which is kind of gross. And his bed is unmade. He’s not sure why that makes the whole thing worse, but it absolutely does.

He’s really not a slob, he does all the cleaning around the house, he rinses dishes rather than stacking them in the sink, and he mops with pine sol religiously. But his room is the one place no one else really goes into, so he doesn’t have to try to dress it up. The rest of the house is shitty enough without the living room being a pigsty.

“It’s okay if you don’t want to,” she says, after he’s hesitated too long. “I’m pretty sure the dining room gets internet, too.”

She looks nervous again, like she might actually think there’s a chance he doesn’t want her around.

Bellamy takes her hand, making a split second decision before he can rethink himself, and tugs her up the stairs. “My room has the best service.”

“I’m sure.” She sounds sarcastic, but she’s laughing too, so he’s feeling pretty good about it.

He kicks the laundry piles around for a minute, clearing a space on the floor for them to sit. His bed feels too—presumptuous.

But Clarke just leans over, pressing her mouth to his, quick and chaste. Her lips are dry and she tastes like toothpaste, which he is suddenly very into.

She leans back with a smile, sitting criss-crossed so their knees are touching, and opens the book in her lap. “Okay, so tell me about Augustus.”

Bellamy grins down at his lap. It’s going to be next to impossible for him to focus, between staring at the good six inches of leg her capris show, and leaning in to kiss her as much as he can—but it’s the good type of distraction.

He’s got a good feeling about this.


End file.
